A Side Poem

The inlets of Corinth whose
vines of scepters spent in
raged dreams, like little
boy who that claimed their dreams
were true and their love
to never wander esset.
Iron affects with obsidian
habits, as if sharpness only
to the last comfort gave and
broken clouds split to spill
the secrets of heaven that
man nor beast nor universe could save.
they had neither will nor way,
merely to let pass those
parcels of wet shadows,
dregs, that we gleamed in pools
of Narcissist’s dreams,
in swelling forests with
only moss and hills to claim
that just rust may now brave
the breaches of kings whose
empty inlets sat like moss drenching caves.
p.p. Not up to snuff, but I’m a whore for your likes.

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